Their merry laugh is heard no more—they neither run nor play,
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer's day.
The spider weaves his web across the windows at his will;
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
My footsteps through the rooms resound all sadly and forlore ;
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a heavy cloud that overflows with rain. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
Alas ! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in spring,
When first thy love for me was told, and thou didst to me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through thy tears, pressing thy lips to mine,
In that old arbour, dear, beneath the overarching vine. Thou art lost to me forever, Isadore.
